


Underline Everything (I'm A Professional)

by vulpesvortex



Category: Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011)
Genre: Jealousy, M/M, Misunderstandings, References to Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 00:10:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vulpesvortex/pseuds/vulpesvortex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d thought that he and Benji had been doing well, spending enough down-time sacked out together on couches watching Firefly re-runs and bantering over the comms on missions, long nights spent on stake-outs and break-ins.</p><p>(A fill for <a href="http://ghotocol-kink.livejournal.com/1494.html?thread=552662#t552662">this prompt</a> on the ghotocol kinkmeme, which asked for Benji having a physically affectionate friendship with another guy and misreading Brandt's jealousy as homophobia.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Underline Everything (I'm A Professional)

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this many months ago after I took my first stroll through the kinkmeme, and it seemed doomed to languish on my hard drive forever, had it not been for littlebixuit expressing interest in a couple of Benji/Brandt doodles I posted on my tumblr. She motivated me to finish this, so I'd like to dedicate it to her. (There you go, love, I never would've made it without you. And thanks again for the quick beta-job!) 
> 
> If you would also like to see some Benji/Brandt doodles, you can find them [here ](http://berendoes.tumblr.com/tagged/benjibrandt) on my tumblr.
> 
> Title from the National's _Squalor Victoria_.

It all starts on a Tuesday.  
  
Brandt, Ethan and Jane are standing outside the new IMF headquarters on a dreary April afternoon, trying to look inconspicuous. At 14:05 it’s 5 minutes past their agreed departure time, and still there is no Benji.  
  
Ethan glances at his watch and sighs. “If his head wasn’t attached to his spine…”  
  
“I wonder what’s keeping him?” Brandt asks, flicking a gaze at Ethan from where his fingers are expertly rolling a cigarette. He won’t smoke it – he needs his lungs in this line of work, thank you very much – but it makes for good cover so he tends to keep a packet of cheap tobacco on him.  
  
“Probably friends in IT. Benji’s a bit of a hero down there, if you’ll believe it.”  
  
“I’ll bet it’s Hammy.” Jane supplies, a subtle grin twitching at the corners of her lips. “Once those two get talking they’re tougher to get apart than cats and bacon.”  
  
That’s the first Brandt ever hears of Hamish Caldwell, hacker extraordinaire and long-time fixture on the IMF technical staff. It had never previously occurred to him that Benji might have close friends in his life outside the team, though of course now he thinks about it it’s only logical: before Russia, Benji spent more time as a tech than he ever spent in the field. At the time, Brandt has no idea how much he’s going to hate the guy.   
  
Ten minutes later, Benji is still a no-show.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
IT is a large bay of heavily equipped cubicles lined by offices on the 12th floor of HQ, filled with the buzz of electronic beeps,  purring computers, intense mumbling and lively conversation. Occasionally a command or question is yelled across the room, a request for an extra hand or the uplink codes to this or that. None of this is new to Brandt – he’s been up to IT before, of course, has had to liaise with plenty of techs in his time both as agent and analyst - but the sight that greets him when he finally locates Benji amongst the chaos _is_.  
  
 Benji’s perched on a desk, the keyboard shoved aside to make place for him, and talking animatedly with a man about the same age, maybe slightly younger. Both men gesture excitedly at each other, energized in a way that Brandt knows from experience only intense techno-babble or cult sci-fi films generate in Benji. He’s not just perched on the desk either: he has one leg pulled up, his foot resting on the edge of the chair between the other man’s legs. Neither of them seems particularly disturbed by the intimacy of the position.  
  
Brandt doesn’t know how long he stands there watching them before he’s snapped out of it by a passing young woman with bright blue hair who accidentally jostles his arm with a folder. Just then, Benji and the man that is presumably Hamish burst out laughing. As they do so, they sway close together, hands pressing  each other’s shoulders in support.  No one in the bay so much as raises an eyebrow, which means none of this behavior is anything out of the ordinary for the Information Technology department of the no longer disavowed IMF.  
  
Brandt’s stomach clenches uncomfortably.  
  
 It’s only a couple of steps to the cubicle, then a short but decisive cough before two pairs of laughter-bright eyes regard him curiously.  
  
“Who’s this then?” the man Brandt is assuming is Hamish says.  
  
“The rendezvous was at 2,” Brandt says, determined to ignore the curly-haired tech nestled so comfortably into Benji’s personal space. (Brandt’s been there, and it’s a very nice place, one he’d possibly-maybe like to see more of. He’s not inclined to sharing.)  
  
“Oh, pants,” Benji cusses, throwing a quick look at the computer screen to check the time, “fuck, I’m sorry. I’ll be right down.”  
  
Benji hops off the desk, straightens out his shirt and collects a variety of appliances from the desk and stuffs them into his messenger bag.  
  
“You’re one of Ben’s teammates then, aren’t you?” The other man steps up to Brandt, offering his hand. “Hamish, nice to meetcha. Call me Hammy,” he adds.  
  
Brandt takes it, if only because to do anything else would be rude. “Brandt.”  
  
The man, infuriatingly, is actually quite attractive for a computer geek. Skinny and tall, somewhat lacking in the muscle department but with dark tousled hair, matching brown eyes and the scruffy beginnings of a beard on his jaw. He has on dark jeans and a green checked flannel shirt that speaks of more sartorial savviness than his friend. Brandt swallows thickly.  
  
“That’s _Agent Brandt_ to you,” Benji adds, grinning at Brandt as he pokes Hamish in the ribs.  
  
 “Ouch, yeah, I got it. Though who knows, I probably saved ‘is life once or twice.”  
  
It’s probably true. Half the techs at IMF in all likelihood have saved his skin with an opening door or a timely hack one time or another, and Hamish’s cheery Scottish vowels do sound vaguely familiar.  
  
“We should get going.” Brandt says, resisting the urge to tug on Benji’s arm.  
  
“Right, yeah, sure,” Benji nods, looking between Hamish and Brandt in confusion.  
  
“Hey, you take good care of him, we need him back in one piece.”  
  
“Obviously.” Brandt finds himself snapping, in a way that is too cold even for special government agents, trying and failing not to be insulted by the idea that he’d need reminding to watch out for his friends.  
  
When Benji follows Brandt’s winding path through the maze of computers, he gives Hamish a shrug and a wave over his shoulder.  It’s a good thing Brandt never turns back to check if he follows, so that he doesn’t see Hamish mouthing _What crawled up his ass and died?  
  
  
_ ***** _  
  
  
_Two hours later sees them all packed and aboard a rather spacious private airplane en route to Amsterdam, and Brandt still can’t shake the cold feeling that’s settled in his stomach. He tries to nap and ends up pretending to sleep if only to dodge the weird looks his ill humor is garnering from his team.  
  
Benji in particular levels him with a flight-long stare that is equal parts unsure and calculating, and that is much easier to deal with so long as Brandt just keeps his eyes closed. He listens to the tap-tap-tap of laptop keys instead, lets the familiarity lull him into a low-level wooziness that is prevented from evolving into unconsciousness by his annoyingly active brain.  
  
He’d thought that he and Benji had been doing well, spending enough down-time sacked out together on couches watching Firefly re-runs and bantering over the comms on missions, long nights spent on stake-outs and break-ins. He’d thought they had been on the right path, there’d been sparks of something here and there, smiles that lingered a moment too long, too fondly, and Star Wars jokes that seemed less like teasing and more like flirting. He’d been sure that in a mission or three (or five, or ten), one of them would work up the balls to do something about it.  
  
Now, though, he isn’t so sure.  
  
There was something in the way that Benji and Hamish interacted that set his teeth on edge,  that sat wrong in his stomach. A few inviting smiles pale in comparison to the comfortable closeness exhibited at Hamish’s desk.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
They tail a corrupt businessman to most of the major cities in Europe, sampling delivery pizza in most of them and getting in fights in some, and two weeks and one rolled-up international arms dealing operation later, they are back in the States only slightly worse for wear.  
  
There’s not much time off between missions, always on the go-go-go, but there are plenty of moments on the job where the hours stretch on with nothing to fill it but teasing and foreign daytime television.  
  
Benji torrents them _Blade Runner_ in Lille and _Fight Club_ in Milan, gets Ethan to watch _Reservoir Dogs_ with them because he, amazingly, has never seen it before. He is forgiven for this trespass against pop culture (Benji’s words, not Brandt’s) only because he was probably too busy kicking terrorists out of crashing airplanes and saving the world with other death-defying badassery up until now (again, Benji’s words), and because he agrees to sit through the film even after Jane’s frankly appalling pitch of ‘it’s two hours of hysterical men cussing at each other’.   
  
Benji hacks the archive of a major bank just for fun and Brandt reads a Le Carré novel in French and they surveille and infiltrate and draw straws for who gets to be a high-roller and who gets to be a croupier at a Venetian casino, and don’t get shot at too much.  
  
So, when they finally touch ground on American soil, Brandt has pretty much forgotten about Benji’s infuriatingly affectionate friend.  
  
He doesn’t get to forget about him for long.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
Brandt notices now all the little ways Hamish’s presence is weaved into Benji’s life, notices the little chat window open on Benji’s computer and the minutes where Benji disappears up to IT after briefings and even notices, one night between missions, the pile of borrowed books in Benji’s apartment inscribed _Hamish Caldwell ’97, ’02, ‘06_.  
  
Those little reminders always leave him a little dejected, a little less invested in the swapping of meaningless insults, and he’s sure Benji notices, has noticed the hands he doesn’t lay on shoulders, the thigh he doesn’t slap getting up off the couch.  
  
And because he’s an analyst - it’s what he does, it’s how his brain works - he slices everything he’s seen and noticed up into little bits in his head and sorts them until he’s got something he can work with. He ends up with three distinct theories, and all of them are depressing.  
  
Option one: Benji is in (possibly requited) love with Hamish Caldwell. Option two: Benji and Hamish are in a relationship Benji has not seen fit to mention to Brandt. Or, option three: this is just how Benji acts around people he likes and their budding attraction was just a product of wishful thinking, courtesy of one William Brandt.   
  
The thing is, watching Hamish’s arm resting casually along Benji’s neck and shoulders doesn’t feel so much like being in competition as being completely outmatched. Maybe if there was a chance he would have fought for it, stepped it up and watched it sink or swim, but instead he pulls back, achingly conscious of what he wants and reluctant to take advantage or intrude. It feels dishonest, the flirting, now that he suspects Benji’s affections are otherwise engaged.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
Benji is standing behind Hamish’s chair at Hamish’s computer terminal, bent low over his shoulders to look at something on the screen. Both men are laughing quietly, alternately pointing at the monitor. One of Benji’s hands idly kneads at Hamish’s shoulder, like an afterthought.  
  
“There, there!” Benji hisses, poking a finger at the screen, his lips almost pressed into Hamish’s curls.  
  
Brandt stands frozen for a moment, just watching them, their easy movements, the fond smiles. The quiet, careless happiness radiating off both of them.  
  
Then he coughs, and two faces slowly turn towards him, both tinged blue in the light of the computer bay.  
  
“Come,” Brandt says, sharp, and jerks a thumb over his shoulder. _Now._  
  
Hamish and Benji watch Brandt turn neatly on his heel and stride out of the IT bay with a face full of storm clouds.  
  
“Wow.” Hamish whistles, swiveling round in his office chair. “That one does not seem happy.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“So, what’ve you done now? Did ya piss in ‘is Cheerios? Ruin his favorite tie?”  
  
“No. I don’t know? I haven’t done anything!”  
  
Hamish raises an eyebrow.  
  
“Honestly!”  
  
“Okay, okay, I believe you,” Hamish throws up his hands. “But in that case, I think your agent’s temper needs work. Charming bedside manner, that is not.”  
  
“He’s not _my_ agent,” Benji mumbles. He flops down on the desk, dejected. “And he’s not generally like this.”  
  
“Really? Cause every time he’s come up here, he’s acted either like an arse or a drill sergeant.”  
  
“I know. It’s weird.” Benji fiddles with one of the pens from Hamish’s desk, wiggling it around between his forefingers. He stares at the moving tip, frowning.  
  
“I don’t think he likes me,” Hamish says, a slow grin spreading over his face.  
  
“Hmm-mm.”  
  
“Benji? Benji.” Hamish snaps his fingers in front of Benji’s face and waits until he looks up. “That surly face reeks of possessiveness. I think he’s jealous.”  
  
“There’s  nothing to be jealous of.”  
  
“No, but from his point…” He indicates the lack of personal space between them. “We are sort of all up in each other’s faces all the time.”  
  
Benji still doesn’t look happy. “You think he thinks we’re sleeping together?”  
  
He nods. “And _voila_ , the shiny green rage monster rears its ugly head.”  
  
Benji _hmm_ -s again, still looking unconvinced. He pats Hamish’s shoulder absently. “Thanks for the talk, Hammy. I gotta…I gotta go.”  
  
On the way to the briefing, Benji lines the facts up in his head. He and Hamish are bad at maintaining personal space. Will, in all likelihood, assumes he and Hamish are an item. Will can’t stand to be in a room with them for more than a minute. When Benji touches Hamish, Will goes green around the gills.  
  
His stomach sinks sickeningly, turning over at the obvious conclusion. It’s not like it’s never happened before.  
  
Jealous, his arse. Hammy may think everything’s made out of rainbows, but Benji knows better. Boot camp is not a fertile breeding ground for tolerance.  
  
Ethan’s never cared, but dealing with a bunch of military-trained, hypermasculine hardasses on a daily basis, someone was going to have a problem sooner or later.  
  
Benji just wishes it wasn’t _this_ someone.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
It’s a Sunday when the bomb finally bursts.  
  
They’re walking together, coming back from a visit to IT where Brandt has, admittedly, been an unmitigated ass to Hamish (again) and Benji has clearly had enough. He’s glaring at Brandt, hands clenched into fists at his side, and he seems to be grinding his teeth together to stop himself from exploding into a rage.  
  
He fails.  
  
“Okay, out with it, seriously, what, what is your problem, why do you always act like a complete douche when you’re up here?”  
  
“I just don’t like your ‘friend’ very much.” Brandt flinches. The air-quotes are definitely audible.  
  
“Yeah, I got that,” Benji says, mocking. “Why? What’d he do to you? Did he drop you down an elevator shaft, give you faulty intel, what.”  
  
“ _You_ dropped me down an elevator shaft. Or, almost." Brandt points out. After a moment's pause, he says: "You guys are awfully touchy.”  
  
“He’s my best mate, why wouldn’t we be?” A second passes, then Benji stops dead in his tracks, Brandt only narrowly avoiding bumping into him. “Wait, that’s it, that is the extent of your problem with him?”  
  
“I, well, no, uh.” Brandt offers intelligently. He’s sure pretty sure the wise thing to do would be to cut off that avenue of inquiry before he shows his hand, so he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, says, “So, uh, how’d you guys meet, then?”  
  
Benji raises a probing eyebrow at him and sighs, but seems prepared to let the abrupt subject change slide for the moment.  
  
“He was already there when I first joined up, showed me the ropes. We hit it off ‘cause he liked _The Persuaders_ and didn’t look at me sideways when I said ‘pants’ or ‘tosser’. It sorta snow-balled after that. ”  
  
“So you, you’re…“  
  
“We’re what?” Benji’s voice goes tense, suddenly chagrined again. He’s glaring at Brandt with an intensity that is usually reserved for criminal masterminds and murdering henchmen.  
  
“Together?”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“You’re…in love with him then?” Brandt ventures, sounding vaguely revolted even to his own ears, and he should be a better man than that, but the idea hurts deep in the pit of his stomach and it’s hard to cover that up.  
  
Benji doesn’t smile when he says: “Platonically infatuated, maybe. In love, no,” though it sounds like it should be a joke, like it’s something they would be laughing about normally, a silly misunderstanding.  
  
“But you’re different with him. You’re not…like that with me or even Ethan or Jane or anyone else I’ve seen.”  
  
“Because you all have ninja reflexes! If I put my hand on your shoulders, you guys would break my wrist half the time, or I don’t know, _flip_ _me over your shoulder_ ,” Benji exclaims, sounding slightly manic, gesturing wildly with his hands. There’s a silver line of humor on it, though, beneath the anger.  
  
Brandt tries to ignore the image of flipping Benji over his shoulder and onto a bed in his head.  
  
“Look, you’re wrong,“ Benji continues when Brandt fails to deliver a reply. “There’s nothing going on between me and Hamish. He is, in fact, happily married, you might have noticed _his bloody wedding ring_ if you weren’t so busy having a heteronormative freak-out, you are after all a fucking special agent, it’s not rocket science. But, for the record, I _am_ actually bisexual, and if you’re not okay with that, that’s your fucking problem, not mine.”  
  
“I, what-”  
  
“Who I sleep with is none of your fucking business. Now piss off.”  
  
“I think I messed that up,” Brandt says, after Benji has stormed off around the corner. The empty hallway offers very little sympathy.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
Brandt is moping.  
  
Of course, William Brandt can’t be _seen_ moping, so he’s going through surveillance logs as an excuse for locking himself up in a tiny dark room with a bowl of popcorn and a six-pack of beer. He gets three hours of glorious alone-time before he hears Ethan’s voice through the door.  
  
“Brandt? Did you break our resident techn-“ Ethan trails off as he takes in Brandt, stretched out on a wonky office chair, chewing stale popcorn amidst a small wasteland of empty beer bottles.  “Oh hell.”  
  
“What,” Brandt says, defensively.  
  
“Benji is terrorizing commuters with temperamental traffic lights. It’s worse than that time one of the techies swiped his hard drive and he spent two hours torching innocent Sims.” Ethan cocks his head. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”  
  
“I…” Brandt sighs. “We may have had a…misunderstanding.”  
  
Ethan waits for more information to be forthcoming, but when Brandt doesn’t say any more, he just rolls his eyes and turns around in the doorway. “Okay, whatever it was, just pull your heads out of your asses and apologize, yeah? I need you guys running smoothly for tomorrow’s op.”  
  
“Yeah.” Brandt nods, and tips his remaining beer into the bin.  
  
  
*****

  
The op does run smoothly, for the most part, and Brandt would be more appreciative of this if his argument with Benji didn’t still sit in his stomach like a brick. There hadn’t been time to get Benji alone or to explain before the mission (okay, Brandt may have been putting it off because he hadn’t yet found an acceptable excuse for his assholery that wasn’t ‘I am ragingly jealous and also possibly in love with you’. He was definitely _not_ planning on going with that one), and once they were on the go, they both slipped into a cold but efficient professionalism.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
Brandt comes back to their temporary hideout – abandoned warehouse, _again_ – around 11, bearing take-out in the hope of smoothing over his apology. The warehouse is quiet apart from the cussing he can hear coming from Benji’s small bay of computers, illuminated in the familiar blue glow.  
  
“Why don’t you turn the light on, you’re gonna ruin your eyes.”  
  
Benji  makes a shooing motion over the top of the screen, not even deigning to look up. “Thanks, Mr Mom.”  
  
Brandt approaches with care, picking his way around the crappy old furniture, overnight bags and mission debris that is already starting to pile up. Benji’s irritation is palpable, a continuous stream of frustrated noises rolling from his mouth, and Brandt gets the feeling Benji is glaring at him every time Brandt looks down to make sure he’s not stepping on priceless spy gadgets.  
  
Eventually he makes it to the desk and perches on the corner, carefully setting down the plastic bag between the clutter.  
  
“I got food.”  
  
“Hmm-mm,” Benji hums non-committally, then follows it up with another low curse when the computer lets out a shrill beep.  
  
“What are you doing? I thought we were done for today?” Brandt tries again.  
  
“Recon.”  
  
“And what’s driving you up the wall?”  
  
“Security’s blowing up at me and the reception here blows and I’m pretty sure most of this equipment is half-way fried. You’d think an organization like IMF would have their shit in order, but apparently, no, that is too much to ask.”  
  
Benji continues to work away at the computer determinedly.  
  
Brandt decides to take Benji’s insistence on not looking at Brandt as an opportunity to take in the way Benji looks, curled up in his office chair. He’s wearing track pants tucked into warm ski socks, which Brandt thinks makes him look adorable and much younger, and an unzipped hoodie over a t-shirt with a dinosaur on it. If an IMF agent ever looked less like a government spy, Brandt hasn’t met them, but he has no doubt that Benji is dangerous, and not only when paired with a computer.  
  
Brandt shivers at the memory of Wistrom falling limply on his back in India, his body going slack at the impact of the bullet, springs to mind. Benji’s silhouette in the doorway. The world ticking so close and closer to its end. Pulling the switch. Being alive.  
  
“Benji? Can you take a break? We should eat.”  
  
“I’m not hungry.”  
  
“Benji,” Brandt sighs, a soft plea in his voice.   
  
“Okay, okay.”  
  
They settle into the makeshift den in tense silence, Brandt’s apology heavy in his throat. They unpack the take-out, now gone slightly cold, onto the crates that form the coffee table, passing cartons to each other occasionally. Benji looks at him with a wariness that Brandt has never seen before, as if unable to figure out where sharing dinner fits in the scheme of things. His stomach tightens uncomfortably.  
  
When the food is mostly gone, Brandt clears his throat.  
  
The wary eyebrow Benji raises is not at all encouraging.  
  
“Look, I think you may have gotten the wrong idea about me.”  
  
“Oh jesus,” Benji groans, rolling his eyes. “This? Really?”  
  
“No, no, wait, I didn’t mean…like that. I mean,”  Brandt takes a deep breath. “Yesterday, you misunderstood me when I asked about Hamish. I know it came out wrong but I’m not uncomfortable with your friendship.” – _lie-_ ”I was curious ‘cause you act so differently around him.”  
  
“So do you,” Benji says drily.  
  
Brandt sighs. He hadn’t really expected to get out of that one, but a guy could hope. “Yeah, I… I know. Something about him just pushes my buttons, I don’t know. I can’t really explain it.”  
  
“I liked it better when you were honest with me.”  
  
“And when was that?”  
  
Benji shrugs. “All the time, before.”  
  
Brandt is silent. He doesn’t have much to defend with against that truth, and Benji’s calm confidence as he says it takes all the fight out of him.  
  
“So, if it’s not the idea of us getting it on -” Brandt’s brow darkens immediately. Benji raises an eyebrow as if to say _See?_ “- then what is it about me and Hammy that turns you into a Sourpuff Girl?”  
  
Brandt snorts and stares at a grease stain slowly crawling up one of the takeout cartons. Under his breath, he sighs.  “You’re gonna kill me.“  
  
Benji throws his arms up in frustration. “Look, I don’t want to kill you.” He grinds his teeth. “I’m angry because it hurts when you act like a clotpole because you’re my friend.”  
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
The words hang in the silence between them for a while, wavering. When Brandt finally works up the courage to glance at Benji, Benji pins him with a calculating stare. He holds the look as long as he can before looking away again, rubbing at his face. From the corner of his eye he can see Benji get up from his rundown old lounge chair.  
  
“You know,” Benji says slowly, standing in front of him now, and Brandt has to look up because there is amusement in Benji’s voice and one of Benji’s knees presses into the leather of his chair and Benji is leaning in close and smiling, saying, “Hammy told me you were jealous.”  
  
And then he’s kissing him.  
  
Brandt surges up, one arm thrown up around Benji’s neck and the other wrapping around his waist. He holds onto the kiss for as long as he can, nipping at his lips and opening his mouth to let Benji’s tongue inside when it presses against his lips. There’s a buzzing in his head, intensifying, and he groans, trying to drown it out, trying to make sense of it, trying to keep on just a little bit longer.  
  
“We both ought to remember our Sherlock Holmes a little better,” Benji says when they part, his lips splitting into a grin against Brandt’s.  
  
“What?” Brandt laughs, nuzzling at Benji’s jaw, hands anchored in Benji’s shirt. Happiness bubbles in his chest. He’s much more interested in kisses than pop culture references right now, to be honest.  
  
“Shouldn’t theorize with insufficient data.” Benji leans in again, pressing their mouths together eagerly with a hand at the back of Brandt’s neck. The hand slides up into his hair and Brandt can’t help but moan into the kiss, dragging Benji further onto the chair by the back of his thighs.  
  
They kiss languidly, piled together in the old arm chair, open-mouthed and easy, occasionally nipping and nuzzling at each other’s neck or jaw. Every time Brandt catches Benji’s eye he can’t help but break out into a smile, bubbling over with joy at this unexpectedly favorable turn of events, and Benji seems similarly afflicted. He chuckles quietly to himself, averting his eyes, and tugs at Brandt’s shirt.  
  
Benji sits back on Brandt’s thighs to help take it off, rolling up into a stretch to pull the sleeves over Brandt’s wrists, and Brandt can’t keep his hands to himself, sliding them under Benji’s shirt in turn and pawing eagerly at his ribs. He pushes his nose against Benji’s sternum, breathes in deeply the scent of laundry detergent and Benji’s skin underneath.  
  
They keep going, frantically pulling at each other, sliding hands everywhere they can reach. It’s not long before Benji has cleverly undone Brandt’s belt and zipper, and Brandt’s hands are buried beneath the elastic waistband of Benji’s track pants, holding him close against him.  
  
“Will.” Benji pulls out of the kiss suddenly, sitting up and listening like a tense rabbit. His arm is still around Brandt’s neck, his mouth hanging slack.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“I think Jane and Ethan are about to come up the stairs.”  
  
It’s true. They can hear their muffled conversation in the hallway, the thump of their feet on the steps, and they both burst out laughing, clutching at each other. They scramble over the back of the chair, which topples under their combined weight and sparks more laughter, in their haste to get to a bedroom. It’s a mess, Benji trying to grab his shirt and hoodie off the floor while Brandt stumbles into him, holding up his pants with one hand.  
  
They trip into the abandoned office (now filled with cots) in the nick of time, the door banging shut just as Ethan and Jane step onto the warehouse floor.  
  
“Lock it, lock the door,” Benji hisses, giggling and already pushing back into Brandt’s space.  
  
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”   
  
The lock _snik_ s into place and Brandt grabs Benji about the waist and launches them at the cot, kissing him all the while.  
  
“Wow,” Benji says, nose brushing Brandt’s. His arms come up to curl around his neck. “That was kind of hot.”  
  
  
*****  
  
  
EPILOGUE:  
  
Their next mission finds them slumming it in an industrial plot on the outskirts of San Francisco, getting ready to take out one computer engineer out of thousands who has decided to put his considerable skill at creating viruses at the service of the highest bidder.  
  
Thursday evening, more specifically, finds the team piled into the den set up in one of the empty corners of their decrepit apartment, Ethan, who has an early undercover op the next morning, not included. Jane and Benji are at their respective laptops, Jane chatting with friends at IMF over a secure connection and Benji scrolling through pages upon pages of code. Brandt is spread-eagled over the broken sofa, bored to death.  
  
“You should take a break, you’ve been staring at that screen for hours.”  
  
“I _am_ taking a break.”  
  
“You’re, what, going through encrypted files? That’s not fun, that’s work.”  
  
“Building a website, actually.”  
  
“What the hell for?”  
  
“Where else would I store my favorite cat videos?” Benji quips.  
  
Brandt rolls his eyes. Figures, only Benji would find staring at computer code after a day of trying to rewrite a virus into harmlessness relaxing. “Youtube?”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous, they’ve got _ads_ now.”  
  
“Wait, do you have a cat?”  
  
“I…used to? It’s mostly been living with my sister since I started doing fieldwork.”  
  
“What’s it called?” Brandt asks, intrigued. He knows that Benji’s laptop, phone and tablet computer have all been named; this promises to be good.  
  
Benji hesitates, a self-depreciating smile playing on his lips. Yeah, this was definitely going to be good.  
  
“…Spock,” Benji says, grinning from ear to ear now.  
  
Brandt snorts.  
  
“Hey, it’s got pointy ears, alright!”  
  
“You, sir, are a walking cliché,” says Brandt as he rolls off the couch and walks up to stand behind Benji.  
  
“Whatever, I was a full-blown geek, I was allowed terribly-named pets. The cat was not the worst, okay, there were action figures, there were film props, I had a _shrine_ of old Atari games. ”  
  
“You’re still a full-blown geek.”  
  
“Yeah, but I got field authorization, so now, I’m cool.”  
  
They laugh together, Brandt braced against the back of Benji’s chair and Benji’s shoulders curving and shaking with laughter against his hands. He should probably wipe the dopey smile off his face some time this century, before Benji notices and makes fun of him, but right now he feels too good to care, drained empty and bruised from their latest mission. It hits him, then, how much he loves this man, this idiot that drives him up the wall more often than not by being so unapologetically himself.  
  
“C’mon,“ Brandt says, flipping the laptop shut over Benji’s shoulder, “you’re done, the internet will keep.”


End file.
